Summer shone late over Western Europe in 1939, but in Icaria the sun had done its work by the fourth week of August figs bursting, grapes heavy under their bloom, and the paths on the hillsides powdering beneath one s feet. The earth, saturated with the long months of heat, flung back sunlight as we crossed the ravine and skirted the walls – we were glad to reach the village after our mornings walk and sit down outside the little caf6. The proprietor, a tallish, stooping man with black, rough hair, a heavy moustache, and the fine-seamed, leathery brown skin of the Greek countryman, brought chairs for us and planted them in the middle of the street one chair to sit on, one to use as a foot-rest. What will you have What have you got ouzo, wine Ouzo we havent got wine we have good – wine. Wine, then three glasses, please. A boy had been asleep on a bench just inside the little cavern of the caf he woke up hastily, put on an apron, and came out with a blue tin mug of wine and glasses.
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